SELECTED  POEMS 


ERRATA 

^ige 

Line 

For 

Head 

18 

15 

Eternty  i 

Eternity 

35 

16 

understland 

understand 

77 

9 

lotos 

lotus 

no  b. 


n}l 


Ff/^nBj 


YONE  NOGUCHI  BY  AlFEO  FagGI 


SELECTED  POEMS 

OF 
YONE  NOGUCHI 

SELECTED  BY  HIMSELF 


BOSTON 
THE  FOUR  SE.\S  COMPANY 

LONDON 
P:LKIN  MATHEWS 


192  1 


Printed  in  Japan 


In  Memory 

s  of 

Basho, 

a  Hokku  Poet 

of  the    • 

Seventeenth  Century 


FOREWORD 

I  often  wonder  at  the  difference  between  the  words  of 
English  Poets  and  the  daily  speech  of  common  people  ;  and  I 
think  that  it  is  not  necessary  to  go  to  Milton  or  Dryden  for 
the  proof.  The  poetical  words  used  by  Tennyson,  Browning, 
Francis  Thompson,  and  even  Yeats,  are  certainly  different 
from  those  spoken  in  the  London  streets  or  an  English 
village  shadowed  by  a  church  spire  or  darkened  by  dense 
foliage.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  how  similar  are  the  words 
of  Japanese  poets  and  those  of  the  common  people  !  Is  it 
that  the  Japanese  poets,  whether  they  be  Uta  poets  or  Hokku 
writers,  are  condescending  to  the  common  people  ?  Or  is  it 
that  the  common  people  of  Japan  are  entering  into  the  realm 
of  poesy  ?  Or  is  it  that  our  Japanese  phraseology  belongs  to 
either  of  them,  or  does  not  belong  to  either  of  them,  through 
its  virtue  of  being  neutral  in  nature  ? 

Suppose  a  pensive  young  lady  is  standing  by  a  veranda 
opened  to  the  garden  with  blooming  cherry  trees,  and  her 
eyes  are  following  the  snow-white  petals  of  cherry  blossoms 
hastening  to  the  ground.     And  suppose  she  murmurs  with  a 


X  Foreword 

sigh,  ''  Why  do  the  flowers  fall  in  such  a  flurry  ?"  Now 
compare  such  an  exclamation  with  the  following  Uta  poem 
by  Ki  no  Tomonori : 

**  'Tis  the  spring  day 

With  lovely  far-away  light     .     •     , 

Why  must  the  flowers  fall 

With  hearts  unquiet  ?" 

It  is  plain  to  see  how  the  words  of  Japanese  poets  and 
common  people  join  hands.  This  particular  point  is  most 
worthy  of  notice  in  the  discussion  of  the  differences  and 
similarities  between  the  East  and  West  in  literature. 

It  is  said  in  the  West  that  the  poets  are  a  race  apart. 
The  fact  that  our  Japanese  poets  are  not  a  race  apart  should 
be  the  very  focus  for  a  discussion  of  Japanese  poets.  While 
in  the  West  the  poets  claim  special  regard  and,  indeed,  im- 
mortality for  themselves,  we  in  Japan  treat  the  poet  as  a 
natural  phenomenon,  as  natural  as  a  flower  or  bird. 

I  admit  that  we  Japanese  as  poets  are  lacking  in  creative 
power,  and  do  not  aim,  like  many  Western  poets,  at  becom" 
ing  rebuilders  of  life.      We  are  taught  not  to  deal  with  poetry 


Forezvord  xi 

as  a  mere  art,  but  to  look  upon  it  as  the  most  necessary 
principle  along  which  our  real  life  shall  be  developed.  When 
we  kneel  before  poetry,  it  is  our  desire  to  create  a  clarified 
pure  realm  where  we  can,  through  the  inspiration  of  rhythm, 
arrange  our  own  minds.  And  then  we  recognise  the  exist- 
ence of  the  compromising  ground  of  passion,  where  we  as 
members  of  society  find  our  safety.  What  great  uncom- 
promising creators  of  passion  were  Shelley,  Byron,  Browning^ 
and  Swinburne  !  They  were  so  earnest  in  their  desire  for  the 
recreation  of  life,  and  not  afraid  were  they,  when  their  desire 
reached  its  climax,  even  to  risk  reaching  a  condition  of 
confused  intricacy.  They  were  indeed  great  and  wonderful 
heroes.  We  cannot  help  thinking,  on  the  other  hand,  what 
cowards  the  majority  of  Japanese  poets  have  been. 

I  respect  that  attitude  of  Western  poets  in  wishing  to  , 
rebuild  or  recreate  their  own  lives  ;  and  also  I  can  well 
understand  why  they  ascribe  importance  to  their  intellectual 
power.  A  great  literary  danger  lies  in  this,  of  course, 
because  there  is  nothing  more  sad  and  terrible  for  poets  than 
to  enslave  themselves  to  intellect. 

But  we  liave  also  our  own  literary  danger.     I  mean  that 


xii  Foreword 

we  often  mistake  a  simple  and  cold  morality  for  an  art.  I 
should  like  to  know  what  is  a  more  dangerous  thing  for  poets 
than  this  sad  morality.  There  are  only  a  few  Japanese  poets 
who  have  failed  from  their  abuse  of  moods  and  passions  ;  but 
we  know  so  many  cases  wherein  their  poetical  failure  was 
quite  complete  under  the  stifling  breath  of  conventional 
morality.  This  damage  would  not  necessarily  be  below  that 
inflictec/  by  intellect ;  it  might  be  greater.  We  notice  that 
the  Western  poets  often  attempt  to  discover  a  poetical  theory 
even  in  the  waving  plaits  of  Apollo's  robe  and  analyse 
intellectually  a  little  cloud  flying  in  the  sky.  Admitting  that 
their  poetical  theory  and  intellectual  power  are  doubtless 
great,  I  have  no  hesitation  in  declaring  that  it  is  they  who 
harden,  shrink,  and  wither  their  own  art.  It  is  true  to  say 
that  they  owe  much  to  the  matter  of  form  for  the  great 
development  of  their  epics  and  dramas.  Also  it  is  true  that 
the  undeveloped  form  of  Japanese  poetry  has  given  a  mighty 
freedom  for  our  poets  to  fly  into  an  invisible  spiritual 
d  omain.  We  can  say  again  that,  if  these  poets  both  of  the 
West  and  the  East  often  stray  into  the  field  of  non-poetry,  it 
IS  the  result  of  their  too  close  attachment  to  forms. 


Foreword  idii 

Oi  course  we  want  more  passion  and  intellect  in  our 
Japanese  poets,  and  also  properly  tempered  patience  and 
effort  And  at  the  same  time  we  should  hope  that  the 
Western  poets  would  forget  their  passion  and  intellect  to 
advantage  and  enter  into  the  real  poetical  life  born  out  of 
awakening  from  madness  I  have  no  quarrel  with  a  critic 
when  he  applies  the  word  *'  mad  "  to  his  Western  poets  ;  but 
we  Japanese  would  be  pleased  to  see  and  admire  the  rare 
moment  when  madness  grows  strangely  calm  and  returns  to 
its  normal  condition,  and  there  we  will  find  our  own  real 
poetry.  Not  the  moving  dynamic  aspect  of  all  the  phenom- 
ena, but  their  settled  still  aspect  inspired  the  Japanese  poets 
— at  least  the  Japanese  poets  of  olden  days — to  real  poetry. 
But  I  know  that  the  times  are  changing  when  we  must,  I 
think,  cultivate  the  really  living  dynamic  life.  And  I  am 
afraid,  with  many  others,  that  such  a  new  literary  step  may 
bring  us  into  an  unhappy  compromise  with  Western  litera- 
ture. Of  course  there  are  poets  and  writers  both  of  the  East 
and  West  who  know  only  how  to  compromise.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  we  have  a  natural-born  Easterner,  for  instance, 
Wordsworth,  in  the  West,  and  there  may  be  a  natural-bom 


-xiv  Foreword 

Westerner  in  the  East,  who  will  bring  the  East  and  West 
together  into  true  understanding,  not  through  faint-hearted 
compromise  but  by  the  real  strength  of  independence  which 
alone  knows  the  meaning  of  harmony. 

To-day  we  must  readjust  the  meanings  of  all  things  or 
give  a  new  interpretation  to  all  the  old  .meanings ;  and  we 
must  solve  the  problem  of  life  and  the  world  from  our  real 
obedience  to  laws  and  knowledge  that  will  make  the  inevitable 
turn  to  a  living  song,  and  learn  the  true  meaning  of  time  from 
the  evanescence  of  psychical  life  ;  then  our  human  lives  will 
become  true  and  living. 

We  must  realise  the  ephemeral  aspect  of  moments  when 
time  moves,  and  also  the  still  aspect  of  infinity  when  it  settles 
down  ;  seek  the  meaning  of  moments  out  of  the  bosom  of 
infinity,  and  again  that  of  infinity  from  the  changing  heart  of 
moments — ^that  is  the  secret  of  real  poetry.  The  moments 
that  suggest  the  still  aspect  of  infinity  are  accidental,  therefore 
living  ;  again  the  infinity  that  is  nothing  but  another  revelation 
of  moments  is  absolute,  therefore  quiet  and  full  of  strength 
and  truth.  The  real  poetry  should  be  accidental  and  also 
absolute.     See  the  river  and  trees,  see  the  smiling  garden 


Forezvord  xv 

flowers,  see  the  breaking  clouds  of  the  sky.  See  also  the 
lonely  moon  walking  a  precipitate  pathless  way  through  the 
clouds.  The  natural  phenomena  are,  under  any  circum- 
stances, revealing  both  meanings  of  the  accidentalism  which 
is  born  from  the  absolute.  When  our  great  poets  of  Japan 
write  only  of  a  shiver  of  a  tree  or  a  flower,  of  a  single  isolated 
aspect  of  nature,  that  means  that  they  are  singing  of  infinity 
from  its  accidental  revelation. 

The  poetical  attitude  of  Wordsworth  was  anarchical 
when,  singing  of  the  small  celandine,  daisy,  and  daffodils,  he 
gave  even  a  little  natural  phenomenon  a  great  sense  of  dignity 
by  making  it  a  center  of  the  universe,  and  broke  the  stupid 
sense  of  proportion  by  looking  on  things  without  discrimina- 
tion ;  he  was  pantheistic,  like  nearly  all  Japanese  poets  and 
painters,  because  he  was  never  troubled  by  any  intellectual 
differentiation,  and  his  clear  and  guileless  eyes  went  straight 
into  the  simplicity  that  joined  the  universe  and  himself  into 
one.  His  poetical  sensibility  was  very  true  and  plain,  and  he 
gained  a  real  sense  of  the  depth  of  space,  the  amplitude  of 
time,  and  the  circle  of  the  universal  law,  and  made  his  life's 
exigency  a  new  turn  of  rhythm.     1  am  glad  to  thiiik  of 


xvi  Foreivord 

Wordsworth  as  the  first  Easterner  of  English  h'terature. 

1  do  not  know  what  one  critic  means  when  he  calls 
Robert  Bridges  the  father  of  the  new  poetry,  unless  he  means 
that  Bridges  has  regained  the  artless  bent  of  the  poetical  mind 
which  was  lost  under  the  physical  vulgarisation  of  the  Mid- 
Victorian  age,  and  that  he  has  opened  his  honest  eyes  upon 
nature  and  life  He,  like  our  Japanese  Uta  or  Hokku  poets, 
gazes  on  life's  essential  aspects.  If  the  Japanese  poets  teach 
the  Western  poets  anything,  it  is  how  to  return  to  the  most 
important  feature  of  poetry  after  clearing  away  all  the  debris 
of  literature  ;  their  expression  is  simple,  therefore  myterious 
in  many  respects  ;  as  it  is  mysterious,  it  is  vivid  and  fresh. 
There  is  nothing  more  wonderful  than  the  phrase  "  Seeing 
poetry  exactly  ;"  nobody  who  has  never  lived  in  poetry  fully, 
claims  to  see  its  exact  existence.  And  you  cannot  be  taught 
how  to  live  in  it  by  reason  or  argument ;  you  must  have  a 
sense  of  adoration  that  comes  only  from  poetical  concentra- 
tion. 

The  time  is  coming  when,  as  with  international  politics 
where  the  understanding  of  the  East  with  the  West  is  already 
an  unmistakable  fact,  the  poetries  of  these  two  different  worlds 


Foreivord  xvii 

will  approach  of  one  another  and  exchange  their  cordial 
greetings.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  the  writers  of  free  verse  of 
the  West  will  be  ambassadors  to  us. 

My  acknowledgments  are  due  to  tlie  editor  of  tlie  Outlook,  New 
York,  for  permission  to  reprint  this  e«say  which  has  appeared  in  his 
pages. 


CONTENTS 

From  "  Seen  and  Unseen  " 

What  about  my  Songs  -- ^ 

Where  is  the  Poet    -- ---.       ^ 

The  Desert  of  '  No  More  ' ^ 

Seas  of  Loneliness    --------...       5 

The  Garden  of  Truth 3 

Like  a  Paper  Lantern --._       q 

From  *'  The  Voice  of  the  Valley  " 

I  Hail  myself  as  I  do  Homer  --- i^ 

The  Night  Reverie  in  the  Forest i5 

Song  of  Day  in  Yosemite  Valley     ------     20 

Song  of  Night  in   Yosemite  Valley  ------     24 

From  ''  From  the  Eastern  Sea  '* 

Apparition      ----- ---29 

O  Cho  San     ----------->,     ^j 

Address  to  a  Soyokaze      ---------34 

Under  the  Moon      --------...     ^^^ 

O  Hana  San ---,.....j 

The  Myoto _._ .- 

The  C^ddess :     God     ---- ,y 

By  the  Sea -----48 

Homekotoba  -----------_>     rj 

Upon  the  Heights    ------     -----     60 


XX 


_,        _  PAGE 

The  Poet - 52 

The  Face  in  the  Mirror     ---------     5^ 

■    How  near  to  Fairyland      ---------67 

Lines  -     -     -     - _     .     .     53 

Spring  -     - 69 

From  '*  The  Summer  Clouds  " 

Prose  Poems  --- ^^ 

From  "  The  Pilgrimage  *' 

*'  The  New  Art  -----------.33 

By  the  Engakuji  Temple  :     Moon  Night  -     -     -     -     84 

To  a  Nightingale      -----------35 

I  am  Like  a  I^af     -----------88 

To  the  Sunflower     -----------     3^ 

Shadow      --'----------. --^Q 

The  Fantastic  Snow-flakes      --------     qj 

Ghost  of  Abyss  ---------     ---^^ 

Autumn  Song     -----------.94 

Fantasia     --------------95 

The  Temple  Bell -     ~     ~     -     97 

To  the  Cicada      ---- 98 

The  Lady  of  Utamaro's  Art  --------     gg 

The  Buddha  Priest  in  Meditation      -     -     -     -     -     -  100 

In  the  Inland  Sea ---102 

Kyoto  - - -     -    -  104 

My  Little  Bird     ------------   105 

Her  Weapons  are  a  Smile  and  a  Little  Fan    -     -     -   1 07 


xxi 

PAGE 

My  Heart  -     -    - ^ to8 

The  Lotus  Worshippers     ---------109 

Lines     ------ 11 1 

The  Eastern  Sea  ------------  1 1 2 

To  a  Sparrow-     -     -     -     --     -     -     -     -     -     -     -114 

Right  and  Left    -.----------115 

In  Japan  Beyond      --- -116 

Cradle  Songs  -------------118 

From  "  Japanese  Hokkus  '* 

Japanese  Hokkus      ---. -123 


FROM  "SEEN  AND  UNSEEN"  (1897) 


WHAT  ABOUT  MY  SONGS 

The  known-unknown-bottonied  gossamer  waves  of  the  field 
are  coloured  by  the  travelling  shadows  of  the  lonely, 
orphaned  meadow  lark  : 

At  shadeless  noon,  sunful-eyed, — ^the  crazy,  one-inch  butterfly 
(dethroned  angel  ?)  roams  about,  her  embodied  shadow 
on  the  secret-chattering  hay-tops,  in  the  sabre-light. 

The  Universe,  too,  has  somewhere  its  shadow ; — but  what 
about  my  songs  ? 

An  there  be  no  shadow,  no  echoing  to  the  end, — my  broken- 
throated  flute  will  never  again  be  made  whole ! 


aoMoa  YM  TuoaA  taiiv/ 

bi'jA  orb  to  a^v£7/  lofnsHao^  bt>f{toliocf'fiwon>fnu-n//on>{  i.  i^' 

:  >|-i^  v/obearn  faatnjsrfqio  - 
.yfrfsliud  rf^ni-  >  odi — .bs^a-ItAiiiie  ,fnx>n  8R5l^bf;rf«  iA 

7/ob£ffa  b  ^^ff  40od£  emfioi  (^B)gni, 


,tf[-oii.«,-n:- 


.;^a*it-vi.ff  -^  nn"jMi;rf':/-irn:j'j^'  '»rf! 


!»K>c;    fifoii     ,'n 


-n9>(o*!d  yffi     ,bii3  ^  ol  gniorfD^  qa  ,wob/5ii«  on  ^d  Dif^ffi 

jn  Hiv/  :^ijfl  bs^lfitniii 


R-p; 


^T§6§^*^— ^t^MP^" 


onoiB  jaofig 
;   bituonn 

,,...  .,.. ...-„  ....... 4liM  ■ 

d  "io  iue  23vH  offw  nsm  odt  ri  siodv*^  ^nA 
aj  ^d3di  3lainoid3  oi  naiio  boiiqani 


WHERE  IS  THE  POET 

The  inky-garmented,  truth-dead  Cloud — woven  by  dumb 
ghost  alone  in  the  darkness  of  phantasmal  mountain- 
mouth — kidnapped  the  maiden  Moon,  silence-faced,  love- 
mannered,  mirroring  her  golden  breast  in  silvery  rivu- 
lets : 

The  Wind,  her  lover,  grey-haired  in  one  moment,  crazes 
around  the  Universe,  hunting  her  dewy  love-letters, 
strewn  secretly  upon  the  oat-carpets  of  the  open  field. 

O,  drama !  never  performed,  never  gossiped,  never  rhymed  ! 
Behold — ^to  the  blind  beast,  ever  tearless,  iron-hearted, 
the  Heaven  has  no  mouth  to  interpret  these  tidings  ! 

Ah,  where  is  the  man  who  lives  out  of  himself? — ^the  poet 
inspired  often  to  chronicle  these  things  ? 


THE  DESERT  OF  'NO  MORE' 

Until  Nothing  muffles  over  the  Universe  of  No  More,  my  soul 
lives  with  the  god,  darkness  and  silence. 

Ah,  great  Nothing  ?  • 

Ah,  the  all-powerful  Desert  of  No  More  ! — ^where  myriads  of 
beings  sleep  in  their  eternal  death ;  where  the  god  dies, 
my  soul  dies,  darkness  dies,  silence  dies  ;  where  nothing 
lives,  but  the  Nothing  that  lives  to  the  End. 

Listen  to  the  cough  of  Nature  ! 

After  the  cough,  the  Universe  is  silent  again,  my  soul  kissing 
the  ever  nameless  idol  faces  of  the  Universe,  as  in  a  holy 
heathen  temple. 


SEAS  OF  LONELINESS 

Underneath  the  void-coloured  shade  of  the  trees,  my  '  self ' 
passed  as  a  drowsy  cloud  into  Somewhere. 

I  see  my  soul  floating  upon  the  face  of  the  deep,  nay  the  face- 
less face  of  the  deepless  deep — 

Ah,  the  Seas  of  Loneliness  ! . 

The  mute-waving  silence-waters,  ever  shoreless,  bottomless 
heavenless,  colourless,  have  no  shadow  of  my  passing 
soul. 

Alas,  I,  without  wisdom,  without  foolishness,  without  good- 
ness, without  badness, — am  like  God,  a  negative  god  at 
least ! 

Is  that  a  quail  ?  One  voice  out  of  the  back-hill  jumped  into 
the  ocean  of  loneliness. 

Alas,  what  sound  resounds  ;  what  colour  returns  ;  the  bottom, 


f  Seas  of  Loneliness  7 

I  the  heaven,  too,  reappears  ! 

There  is  no  place  of  muteness  !  Yea,  my  paradise  is  lost  in 
i  this  moment !  . 

I  want  not  pleasure,  sadness,  love,  hatred,  success,  unsuccess, 
beauty,  ugliness — only  the  mighty  Nothing  in  No  More. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  TRUTH 

Untimely  frosts  wreathe  over  the  garden — ^the  staid  bottom 
were  air  the  sea. 

Alas !  from  her  honeyed  rim,  frosts  steal  down  like  love- 
messengers  from  the  Lady  Moon. 

A  light-walled  corridor  in  Truth's  palace ;  a  humanity-guard- 
ed chapel  of  God,  where  brave  divinities  kneel,  small  as 
mice,  against  the  shoreless  heavens,  —  the  midnight 
garden,  where  my  naked  soul  roams  alone,  under  the 
guidance  of  Silence. 

The^  God-beloved  man  welcomes,  respects  as  an  honoured 
guest,  his  own  soul  and  body,  in  his  solitude. 

Lo  !  the  roses  under  the  night  dress  themselves  in  silence,  and 
expect  no  mortal  applaud,^ — content  witli  that  of  their 
voiceless  God. 


LIKE  A  PAPER  LANTERN 

**  Oht  my  friend,  thou  wilt  not  come  back  to  me  this  night !  " 
I.  am   lonely   in   this   lonely   cabin,   alas,    in   the    friendless 
Universe,  and  the  snail  at  my  door  hides  stealishly  his 
horns. 
"  Oh^for  my  sake,  put  forth  thy  honourable  horns  /  " 
To  the  Eastward,  to  the  Westward  ?     Alas,  where  is  Truth- 
fulness ? — Goodness  ? — Light  ? 
The  world  enveils  me ;  my  body  itself  this  night  enveils  my 

soul. 
Alas,  my  soul  is  like  a  paper  lantern,  its  pastes  wetted  off 
under  the  rainy  night,  in  the  rainy  world. 


FROM  "THE  VOICE  OF  THE  VALLEY"  (1898) 


13 


I  HAIL  MYSELF  AS  I  DO  HOMER 

The  heart  of  God,  the  unpretending  heaven,  concealing  the 

midnight  stars  in  glassing  the  day  of  earth,  • 
Showers  his  brooding  love  upon  the  green-crowned  goddess. 

May  Earth,  in  heart-lulling  mirth. 
O  Poet,  begin  thy  flight  by  singing  of  the  hidden  soul  in 
I  vaporous  harmony ; 

Startle  the  lazy  noon  drowsing  in  the  full-flowing  tide  of  the 

sunbeams  nailing  thy  chants  in  Eternity  ! 
I      The  melody  breathing  peace  in  the  name  of  Spring,  calms 

tear  to  smile,  envy  to  rest. 
Ah  thou,  world  of  this  day,  sigh  not  of  the  poets  who  have 

deserted  thee — aye,  I  hail  myself  as  I  do  Homer  ! 
Behold,  a  baby  flower  hymns  the  creation  of  the  universe  in 

the  breeze,  charming  my  soul  as  the  lover-moon  ! 


14  I  Hail  Myself  as  1  do  Homer 

0  Yone, — ^a  ripple  of  the  vanity-water,  a  rain  drop  from  the 

vanity-cloud, — lay  thy   body   under   the  sun-enamelled 

shade  of  the  trees, 
As  a  heathen  idol  in  an  untrodden  path  awakening  in  spirit 

sent  by  the  unseen  genius  of  the  sphere  ! 
The  earth,  a  single-roomed  hermitage  for  mortals,  shows  not, 

unto  me  a  door  to  Death  on  the  joy-carpeted  floor — 
Aye,  I  call  the  once  dead  light  of  day  from  the  dark-breasted 

slumber  of  night ! — 

1  repose  in  the  harmonious  difference  of  the  divine  Sister  and 

Brother, — ^Voice  and  Silence  in  Time. 
O  Yone,   return  to   Nature   in   the  woodland, — thy  home, 

where  Wisdom  and  Laughter  entwine  their  arms ! 
Ah  Cities,  scorning  the  order  of  the  world,  ye  plunder  rest 

from  night,  paint  day  with  snowy  vice, — 
Alas,  the  smoke-dragon  obscures  the  light  of  God  ;  the  sky 


/  Hail  Myself  as  I  do  Homer  15 

measuring  steeple  speaks  of  discontent  unto  the  Heaven ! 

O  Yone,  wander  not  city-ward — ^there  thou  art  sentenced  to 
veil  thy  tears  with  smiles  ! 

Behold,  the  cloud  hides  the  sins  of  the  cities — regiments  of 
redwood-giants  guard  the  holy  gates  of  the  woodland 
against  the  shames ! 

Chant  of  Nature,  O  Yone, — sing  thy  destiny— hymn  of  dark- 
ness for  the  ivory-browed  dawn — 

Behold,  the  deathless  Deity  blesses  thee  in  silence  from  the 
thousand  temples  of  the  stars  above  1 


i6 


THE  NIGHT  REVERIE  IN  THE  FOREST 

"  Buy  my  tears  that  I  sucked  from  the  breast  of  Truth — 

tears,  sister  spirits  of  Heaven's  smile  !  '*  sobs  the  Wind. 
Thou  pale  Wind,  tear-vender  of  the  hideous  night,  no  one 

welcomes  thee  with  thy  unsold  tears  ! 
Thou  Gipsy-Wind,  my  fellow-wanderer  who  fears  light,  cease 

thy  plaintive  strain  of  the  sweet  home  ever  lost ! 
'*  O  Poet,  sole  midnight  cornforter,  share  my  tears  in  thy 

heart  ever  tenanted  by  Autumn  !  ** 
Kiss  me,  Wind,  to  whom  the  gates  of  Spring  never  swing 

open,  let  us  sleep  under  the  weeping  candle-star ! 
O  Repose,  whose  bosom  harbours  the  heavenly  dream-ships, 

welcome  me,  an  exiled  soul ! 
Thou  Forest,  where  Peace  and  Liberty  divide  their  wealth 
,     with  even  a  homeless  convict. 


The  Night  Reverie  in  the  Forest  17 

Let  me  sleep  in  thy  arm-boughs,  safer  far  than  a  king's  iron 

castle  guarded  by  mortal  power ! 
Lull  thy  guest  to  reverie,  master-spirit  of  the  forest,  with  thy 

solemn  love  tales  of  ancient  gods  ! 
Here  Ease  and  Grandeur  lodge  in  the  forest's  heart,  where 

Time  ever  reveals  his  changeless  youth. 
Five  miles  I  travelled — the  black-robed  bird-monk  had  ended 

his  last  prayer,  a  good-night  hymn ; 
Ten  miles, — I  lost  the  home  window-light  that  bids  Sorrow 

and  Tears  depart  like  masterless  dogs ; 
Twenty  miles, — the  eloping  mother-moon  had  abandoned  her 

child,  my  lonely  soul. 
Thou  Darkness,  bewailing  thy  desertion  by  Light,  I  deplore 

my  like  fate,  echoing  thy  saddest  strain  ! — 
Friend  Night,  my  tears  overflow  from  the  love-fountain  unto 

the  sorrow-made  dells ! 


1 8  The  Night  Reverie  in  the  Forest 

I,  an  idle  singer,  fleeing  from  the  world's  shame,  make  a 
pilgrimage  to  an  unknown  land — O  Heaven — or  Hell  ? 

Thou  Silence,  who  never  responds  to  mortal's  voice,  where 
is  the  secret  door  of  Paradise  ? — Speak  once  unto  me  ! 

0  Star,  thou  radiant  spirit  of  the  blessed  Beatrice  who  once 

guided  a  mortal  unto  Heaven,  brighten  now  my  dark- 
some path ! 

I,  a  lone  pilgrim,  knock  at  the  gate  of  Heaven — nay,  the 
silent  castle  of  Repose — O  Repose  ! 

Rhyme  on,  Lady-Rivulet  from  thy  mountain  Memnon,  thy 
tunable  song  awakening  mortals'  vanity-dreams  ! 

Ah,  Nakedness  !  Nakedness — ^to  whom  Shame  and  Pride  are 
buried  in  the  peaceful  tomb  of  Faith  ! 

Ah,  Loneliness !  I^oneliness — ^to  whom  a  boatman  of  God  is 
the  sole  saviour  on  the  vast  Sea  of  Eternty  i! 

1  repose    under   the   forest's   arnri-bough — ^if  I   awaken  not 


The  Night  Reverie  hi  the  Forest  1 9 

forever,  pray,  brother  mortal. 
Make  my  grave  under  the  greenest  grass  and  carve  this  h'ne 
"  Here  sleeps  a  nameless  Poet^ 


20 


SONG  OF  DAY  IN  YOSEMITE  VALLEY 

O  thunderous  opening  of  the  unseen  gate  of  solemn  Heaven's 

Eternal  Court ! 
Behold,   clouds,  tenants  of  the  sky,  sweep  down  from  the 

Heavens  unto  a  secret  palace  under  the  Earth  ! — 
Aye,  mighty  Yosemite  ! — ^a  glorious  troop  of  the  unsufiering 

souls  of  gods 
Marches  on  with  battle-sound  against  the  unknown  castle  of 

Hell!— 
Aye,  a  divine  message  of  Heaven  unto  Earth — the  darksome 

house  of  mortals — to  awake  ! 
Hark — the  heart-broken  cry  of  a  great  Soul ! — 
Nay,  the  tempestuous  song  of  Heaven's  organ  throbbing  wild 

peace  through  the  sky  and  land  ! 
The  Shout  of  Hell  wedded  to  the  Silence  of  Heaven  completes 


Song  of  Day  in   Yosemite   Valley  2 1 

the  Valley  concert,  forms  the  true  symphony — 
The  Female-light  kissing  the  breast  of  the  Male-shadow  chants 

the  sacred  Union ! 
I,  a  muse  from  the  Orient,  where  is  revealed  the  light  of 

dawn, 
Harken  to  the  welcome  strains  of  genii  from  the  heart  of  the 

great  Sierras — 
I   repose  under  the  forest-boughs  that  invoke   the   Deity's 

hymn  from  the  Nothing-air. 
Here,  brother  mortal,  lies  the  path  like  Beauty's  arm,  guiding 

thee  into  the  Heaven  afar  ! — 
Alone   I   stray   by   the   mountain   walls    that    support    the 

enamelled  mirror-sky, 
Enfolding  my  free-born  soul  in  the  vice-purifying  odours  of 

the  forest  from  an  unknown  comer  of  Paradise. 
Art   thirsty? — here    rolls    the    snow-robed    water   for    thy 


22  Song  of  Day  in   Yosemite   Valley 

fulfillment ; 
Does  dullness  veil  thee  ? — here  a  stone  chamber  invites  thee 

into  the  world  of  dreams  through  an  unseen  door. 
O   return,   brother   mortal,   from   Samsara   unto   the    great 

Valley ! 
Yea,  the  mighty  Temple  of  the  World,  everlasting  with  the 

heaven  and  earth,  welcomes  thee  ! 
Behold  !     Yosemite,  sermoning  Truth  and  Liberty,  battles  in 

spirit  with  the  Pacific  Ocean  afar ! 

0  unfading  wonder,  eternal  glory  !  I  pray  a  redemption  from 

the  majesty  that  chains  me — 
(Lo,  Hell  offers  a  great  edifice  unto  Heaven !)  O,  I  bid  my 
txivy  and  praise  rest  against  thee  ; 

1  am  content  in  the  sounding  Silence,  in  the  powerless  Time 

that  holds  the  Valley  in  the  age  of  gold  ; 
I  proffer  my  stainful  body  and  leprous  soul  with  blackest 


Song  of  Day  in   Yosemite   Valley  23 

shame  unto  thee ; 
I  am  united  with  the  Universe,  and  the  Universe  with  me. 
O  hail,  brother  mortal !  the  true  joy  is  revealed  unto  thee — 
Be  thou  a  wav^e  ebbing  and  flowing  with  the  air  of  Heaven ! 
Behold  !     The  genii  of  the  forest  chant  Peace  unto  the  Lord 

from  an  unknown  shrine  in  the  Valley  temple. 
O  mighty  chapel  of  God  !     Thou  knowest  not  an  iron  chariot 

stained  with  hostile  blood  ; — 
Aye,    idle   spears   and   foolish   shields   dare   not   ruin    thee, 

proclaiming  War  in  Eternity  1 


24 


SONG  OF  NIGHT  IN  YOSEMITE  VALLEY  . 

Hark  !     The  prophecy-inciting  windquake  of  the  unfathom- 
able concave  of  darkest  Hell !     . 
O,  the  God-scorning  demon's  shout  against  the  truth-locked 

gate  of  mighty  Heaven  ! 
Heaven  and  Hell  joining  their  palace  and  dungeon,  remould 

the  sinful  universe  to  an  ethereal  paradise — 
O,  the  sphere  is  shaken  by  the  Master-Mechanic  working 

from  the  surface  of  the  world  to  its  center  ! 
Alas,  the  sun  has  fled  in  saddest  woe  ! — O  mortal,  breathe  thy 

silent  prayer  unto  mighty  Yosemite  for  mirth  ! 
Behold,  the  light  of  day  leaves  the  white  mansion  to  the  care 

of  dolorous  night ! — 
The  genii  of  the  Valley  fly  from  the  roar  of  a  thousand  lions 

to  the  sacred  pesLce  above — 


Song  of  Night  in   Yo Semite   Valley  25 

Lo,  an  unknown  jeweller  decks  the  black,  velvety  heaven  with 

treasure-stars — 
Yea,  the  Mother-Goddess,  mantling  the  earth  with  the  night, 

forbids  Yosemite  disturb  her  baby-angel's  dream  in  the 

heaven ! 
Hark  !  the  night  disconcord  of  the  eternal  falling  of  waters 

sounding  discontent  throughout  the  earth  — 
O,  a  chariot  is  rushing  down  to  an  unknown  hollow  in  wild 

triumph ! 
l^hold,  a  dragon  reveals  divinity  in  the  ghostly-odorous  sky 

of  night — 
Nay,  the  mighty  sword  of  the  Judgment  Day  blazes  down  the 

Heaven  to  the  gate  of  Hell ! 


FROM  "FROM  THE  EASTERN  SEA"  (1903) 


29 


APPARITION 

Twas  mom ; 

I  felt  the  whiteness  of  her  brow 

Over  my  face ;  I  raised  my  eyes  and  saw 

The  breezes  passing  on  dewy  feet. 

Twas  noon ; 

Her  slightly  trembling  lips  of  passion 
I  saw%  I  felt,  but  where  she  smiled 
Were  only  yellow  flakes  of  sunlight. 

Twas  eve ; 

The  velvet  shadows  of  her  hair  enforded  me  ; 
I  eagerly  stretched  my  hand  to  grasp  her, 
But  touched  the  darkness  of  eve. 


30  Apparition 

*Twas  night ; 

I  heard  her  eloquent  violet  eyes 
Whispering  love,  but  from  the  heaven 
Gazed  down  the  stars  in  gathering  tears. 


31 


O  CHO  SAN 

Dream  was  in  the  soul  of  the  garden  brook, 

Spring  in  its  song  :  O  Cho  San 

Leaned  her  down  to  face  her  image 

In  the  brook  ;  both  smiled  in  greeting. 

In  sudden  thought  she  looked  behind  j 

The  sadness  of  a  midnight  star 

Abode  in  her  unmoving  eyes ; 

The  mists  of  silence  filled  the  gate  of  her  lips. 

The  moments  slipped  by  :  the  sunlight  fell 

Over  her  face,  as  a  golden  message ; 

The  kiss  of  beauty  graced  her  hair ; 

The  soft  odour  of  womanhood  beautifully  rose  ; 

The  butterflies  surrounding  her  forgot  to  part : 

She  was  in  indolence.     Slow^ly  she 


32  O  Cho  San 

Began  a  dreamy  smile,  silently  facing 

Toward  a  calm  sea  of  fancy  :  her  smile 

Was  that  of  an  April-night  cherry-blossom 

To  the  wind.     Softly  she  looked  round  and  whispered  : 

"  At  the  return  of  my  lord  I  will  thus  smile. 

My  sweet  lover,  when  Anata. shall  return  !  " 

And  smiling  bravely  with  a  sweet  intent,  she  said  : 

"  Look  what  a  beautiful  smiling  O  Cho  San  !  " 

Then  much  she  blushed,  and  started  up,  and,  with  a  sigh. 

Began  a  languid,  graceful  walk  along  the  path : 

Her  walk  was  that  of  an  afternoon  breeze 

With  the  fragrance  of  cherry-blossoms. 

The  petals  of  the  flower,  like  butterflies. 

Abruptly  fell,  some  on  her  shoulders 

And  her  hair ;  the  brook  gossiped  of  Spring. 

She  walked  amid  the  solemn  loveliness  of  eve  : 


O  Cho  San  33 

And  solitude  and  dreams  were  with  her  soul ; 
Dim  poems  rose  around  her  like  odours 
Unto  the  moon.     She  was  beautiful  as  one 
Who  smiling,  enters  in  the  gate  of  Sorrow  : 
The  earth  upturned  her  melancholy  face 
Toward  the  heavens    the  evening  bell 
Tolled  as  the  last  song  of  a  sea. 
"  Beloved  !  Beloved  !  "  she  cried  ; 
Her  streaming  eyes  beheld  a  silent  star. 


34 


ADDRESS  TO  A  SOYOKAZE* 

O  Soyokaze, 

From  the  golden  bower  of  the  nioming  sun. 
In  gracefully  loose  gown, 
Your  eyes  strewing  the  wealth  of  aerial  beauty 
That  is  half  shadow,  half  odour. 
Up  with  me,  Soyokaze  ! 
I've  left  behind  the  mortal  love. 
And  all  the  books  dear  next  to  woman. 
Up,  up,  and  seek  with  me 
A  thousand  stars 
Lost  beyond  the  skies  ! 
Sail  afar  with  me, 

O  Soyokaze,  on  light-gleamhig  step  ; 
*  *  Soyokaze  *  is  '  zephyr  *  in  Japanese. 


Address  to  a  Soy  okas  e  35 

Sail  into  the  garden  strange  yet  my  own ! 

I'll  build  there  niiy  home  in  the  moonbeams, 

ril  gather  the  poems  from  the  flower^, 

And  from  the  hearts  of  birds. 

Sail,  sail,  my  Soyokaze  ! 

When  I  am  tired, 

We'll  rest,  my  head  on  your  shoulder, 

And  I'll  listen  to  your  tales 

That  you  heard  under  the  roses 

Passing  through  the  woodland. 

When  the  tree  throws  its  shadow  on  the  ground 

(The  shadow  is  its  written  song), 

And  I  see  not  its  real  meaning, 

You  will  instantly  rise, 

And  play  the  harp  of  the  leaves, 

And  make  me  fully  understland. 


36  Address  to  a  Soyokazc 

O  beloved  Soyokaze, 

My  dear  comrade, 

Be  with  my  soul  eternally 

Since  I  am  sundered  from  the  world. 

And  am  alone ! 


37 


UNDER  THE  MOON 

The  autumn  night  had  a  sad  impressive  beauty. 

I  turned  my  face  as  a  flower, 

In  indolence  :  the  sweet  mystery  of  indolence 

Whispered  me  an  alien  legend      I,  with  lips  apart, 

With  the  large  mindless  eyes,  stood 

As  one  fresh -from  a  fairy  dream  : 

The  ecstacy  of  the  dream  was  not  yet  dry 

On  my  face.     The  strangest  stillness. 

As  exquisite  as  if  all  the  winds 

Were  dead,  surrounded  me ;  I  idly  thought. 

What  a  poem,  and  what  love  were  hidden  behind 

The  moon,  and  how  great  to  be  beyond  mortal  breath, 

Far  from  the  human  domain.     My  moon-fancy. 

Aimless  as  a  breeze  of  summer  eve, 


38  Under  the  Moon 

Drowsy  as  a  rose  of  Spring  morning,  has  passed  : 

My  fancy  was  a  fragrance  as  from  an  unknown  isle 

Where  Beauty  smiled  her  favourite  smile. 

How  glad  I  was,  being  wounded  by 

The  beautiful  rush  of  yellow  rays  ! 

The  sad  sobbing  charm  of  the  m')on    - 

Was  that  of  the  face  of  an  ancient  fairy. 

The  moon  gracefully  kept  her  perfect  silence 

Until  a  greater  muse  shall  restore  the  world 

From  demon's  sword  and  unworthy  death. 

I  was  in  the  lullaby  of  the  moon, 

As  a  tree  snugly  wrapped  in  the  mist : 

I  lost  all  my  earthly  thoughts. 

The  moon  was  voiceless  as  a  nun 

With  eyes  shining  in  beauteous  grief: 

The  mystic  silence  of  the  moon 


Under  the  Moon    -  39 

Gradually  revived  in  me  the  Immortality, 

The  sorrow  that  gently  stirred 

Was  melancholy-sweet :  sorrow  is  higher 

Far  than  joy,  the  sweetest  sorrow  is  supreme 

Amid  all  the  passions.     I  h^d 

No  sorrow  of  mortal  heart :  my  sorrow 

Was  one  given  before  the  human  sorrows 

Were  given  me.     Mortal  speech  died 

From  me  :  my  speech  was  one  spoken  before 

God  bestowed  on  me  human  speech. 

There  is  nothing  like  the  moon-night 

When  I,  parted  from  the  v^oice  of  the  city, 

Drink  deep  of  Infinity  with  peace 

From  another,  a  stranger  sphere.     There  is  nothing 

Like  the  moon-night  when  the  rich  noble  stars 

And  maiden  roses  interchange  their  long  looks  of  love. 


40  Under  the  Moon 

•     There  is  nothing  like  the  moon-night 

When  I  raise  my  face  from  the  land  of  loss 
Unto  the  golden  air,  and  calmly  learn 
How  perfect  it  is  to  grow  still  as  a  star. 
There  is  nothing  like  the  moon-night 
When  I  walk  upon  the  freshest  dews, 
And  amid  the  warmest  breezes. 
With  all  the  thought  of  God 
And  all  the  bliss  of  man,  as  Adam 
Not  yet  driven  from  Eden,  and  to  whorn^ 
Eve  was  not  yet  born.     What  a  bird 
Dreams  in  the  moonlight  is  my  dream : 
What  a  rose  sings  is  my  song. 


41 


O  HANA  SAN 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  garcien  of  the  cherry-blossom 

Of  a  far-off  isle  you  may  know 

By  the  fairy  name  of  Nippon, 

That  a  maiden  who  was  dressing  her  hair 

Against  the  mirror  of  a  shining  spring, 

Casting  over  me  her  sudden  heavenly  glance, 

Entreated  me  to  break  a  beautiful  branch 

Of  the  cherry-tree  :  I  cannot  forget 

I  was  a  boy  on  the  way  home 

From  my  school ;  I  threw  aside 

All  my  books  and  slate,  and  I  climbed 

Up  the  tree,  and  looked  dow^n 

Over  her  little  anxious  butterfly  face  : 


42  ,  O  Hana  San 

Oh,  how  the  wind  blew  fanning  me 

With  a  love  that  was  more  than  earthly  love. 

In  a  garden  of  the  cherry-blossom 

Of  a  far-off  isle  you  may  know 

By  the  fairy  name  of  Nippon  ! 

I  broke  a  branch,  slowly  dropped  it 

To  her  up-raised  hands  that  God  shaped 

With  best  art  and  pain  ;  she  smiled 

Toward  me  an  angel  smile ;  she, 

Speaking  no  word,  ran  away  as  a  breeze, 

Leaving  behind  the  silver  evening  moon, 

And  hid  from  me  in  the  shadow  of  a  pine-tree 

In  a  garden  of  the  cherry-blossom 

Of  a  far-off  isle  you  may  know 

By  the  fairy  name  of  Nippon. 

I  stole  toward  her  on  tiptoe. 


O  Hana  San  r  43 

As  a  silent  moonbeam  to  a  sleeping  flower, 

And  frightened  her  with  a  shout  of  '  Mitsuketa  wa/* 

And  I  ran  away  from  her,  smiling  and  blushing, 

In  a  garden  of  the  cherry-blossom 

Of  a  far-off  isle  you  may  know 

By  the  fairy  name  of  Nippon. 

And  I  hid  me  beneath  the  gate  of  a  temple. 

That  was  a  pathway  to  the  heavens. 

She  stepped  softly  as  the  night, 

Found  me  and  looked  upon  me  with  a  smile  like  a  star. 

Tapped  my  head  with  the  branch, 

Speaking  fondly,  *  My  sweetest  one  !  * 

I  had  no  answer  but  a  glad  laugh 

That  was  taught  by  the  happy  wind 

In  a  garden  of  the  cherry-blossom 

^  *  I  found  thee  out  *  in  English. 


44  0  Hana  San 

Of  a  far-off  isle  you  may  know 
By  the  fairy  name  of  Nippon. 
And  that  maiden  who  was  known 
By  the  pretty  name  of  O  Hana  San, 
Ran  away  gracefully  as  a  Spring  cloud 
Into  the  heavens,  blushing  and  smiling, 
.  Then  I  followed  O  Hana's  steps. 
Into  the  heavens,  into  the  realm  of  Love. 


45 


THE  MYOTO* 

The  woman  whispered  in  the  voice  that  roses  have  lost : 

*  My  love  ! ' 

The  man  said,  *  Yes,  dear ! ' 

In  the  voice  that  seas  cannot  utter. 

The  woman  whispered  in  the  voice  of  velvet-footed  moon- 
beams : 

*  My  love  1  * 

The  man  said,  '  Yes,  dear  ! ' 

In  the  voice  that  mountains  keep  in  bosom. ' 

The  woman  whispered  in  the  voice  of  eve  calling  the  stars  to 
appear : 

*  My  love !  * 

*  Myoto '  is  Japanese  for  *  couple  '  in  English. 


46  The  Myoto 

The  man  said,  *  Yes,  dear  ! ' 

In  the  voice  of  dawn  for  Spring  and  Life. 

The  woman  whispered  in  the  voice  of  a  young  summer 

rivulet : 
*My  love!  * 

The  man  said,  '  Yes,  dear  ! ' 
In  the  voice  of  forests  unto  the  sky. 


47 


THE  GODDESS :  GOD 

The  goddess  spins  the  wool  of  the  rivulet  to  its  length  : 

O  silver  song  of  the  female  spinner  ! 

O  golden  silence  of  the  male  spinner !  '         • 

God  spinning  with  the  wheel  of  Time, 

White  of  day  and  darkness  of  the  night  to  eternity. 


A6 


BY  THE  SEA 

The  moon  came  sadly  out  of  a  hill ; 

I  from  the  city  silently  stole  : 

Many  an  hour  had  passed  since  I  shook 

The  sorrow-thoughts  to  the  winds. 

The  moon's  beautiful  cold  steps  were  my  steps. 

In  silvery  peace,  apart  from  paths  of  men : 

The  dewy  mysterious  beams,  as  love-whispers, 

Stole  in  my  hair  which  zephyr  stirred 

As  cloud  ;  I  w^as  as  in  the  mazy  sweet, 

I  knew  not  why.     I  smiled  unto  the  moon ; 

The  moon  understood  me  :  the  silence  was  profound. 

On  the  sea-face  unearthly  dreams 

And  greenly  melancholic  autumn  voicelessly  stepped  ; 

The  moon  threw  a  large  soft  smile  over  the  sea. 


By  the  Sea  49 

The  sea  ^\as  verily  proud  to  sing  : 

The  sea's  passions  wooing  the  shore. 

Taught  me  the  secret  how  to  win  woman ; 

But  the  love  of  woman  was  left  far  behind. 

I  slowly  thought  how  beautiful  to  sink 

Into  the  moon-sea  and  to  rise 

With  worshipping  face  unto  the  moon : 

A  sea-bird  suddenly  sprung  from  the  wave. 

Scattering  sea-pearls  with  lavish  wing, 

I  sat  me  down  on  the  shore. 

With  tragic  eyes  upon  the  stars, 

With  my  ears  unto  the  sea  : 

The  silence  of  the  stars  was  as  great 

As  the  voice  of  the'  sea  ;  it  is  so 

Since  the  First  day,  that  the  stars 

Keep  the  silence  and  the  sea  the  voice. 


so  By  the  Sea 

I  walked  with  the  moon,  by  the  sea, 
Til]  the  dawn  :  what  I  thought  was  that 
The  moon  thought,  I  knew  not  what 


51 


HOMEKOTOBA* 


I  hear,  O  lovely  lady,  in  thy  voice, 

The  music  of  a  hidden  flower  valley, 

Anear  yet  distant ;  from  thy  face 

The  beauty  of  Spring  flashes  : 

I  linger  around  thee,  faithful  and  ecstatic. 

The  murmur  of  a  rose. 

Or  of  a  white  star  that  peeps 

Out  of  another  world  of  poetry, 

Is  the  murmur  of  thy  gracious  eyes  : 

Thine  eyes  are  veiled  by  the  misty  breezes. 

Thy  lips  of  infinity  are  beautifully  wet 

*  Homekotoba '  means  *  praising  words.' 


f2  Hofnekotoba 

With  human  kisses  and  with  the  breath  of  life  ; 

On  thy  cheeks  bloom  the  flowers  of  moonbeams  ; 

Thy  bosom  holds  the  mystery  of  the  sky ; 

The  laughter  of  the  air  is  thy  laughter. 

The  freshness  of  a  sea  at  morn 

Is  like  unto  thy  fragrant  thought  of  woman  ; 

A  wood  with  leaves  glistening  with  dewdrops 

And  a  singing  bird  are  symbols  of  thy  fancy ; 

A  flower  of  morning  prayer  is  thy  upturned  look 

Into  the  sunlight  that,  like  organ  melody, 

Rolls  up  the  vault  of  heaven  from  the  east ; 

On  thy  hair  flutters  the  gossip  of  heaven. 

A  vision  of  heavenly  beauty  in  a  haze 

Is  thy  lithe  form  reclining  upon  the  grasses  ; 

A  lily  appearing  from  the  gossamer 

Is  thy  feice  looking  out  from  the  bewilderment ; 


Homekoioba  53 

Thy  soul  IS  a  divine  complexity 

In  which  I  lose  my  way  as  in  a  dream. 

Thy  smile  was  born  in  light  of  summer  blessedness  ; 

The  dark-browed  wind  in  Spring  rain  is  thy  melancholy : 

Thy  breath  is  the  whisper  along  a  violet  road ; 

Thy  shadow  on  my  breast  is  thy  heart's  history. 

II 

I  read,  O  lovely  lady,  in  thy  face 

All  the  religions  of  beauty 

(They  are  nothing  else  but  Love)  ; 

Thy  silence  musical  and  commanding 

Is  that  of  a  harp  set  in  the  windless  air. 

Whenever  I  see  thee  my  new  page  of  life  begins. 

With  the  moon  of  another  light, 

With  the  fresh  stir  of  a  new  field  of  wealth  ; 


54  Homekotoba 

If  I  was  not  born  for  anything  else, 
I  was  bom  with  one  aim  to  adore  thee : 
One  aim  is  enough  for  any  life. 
Thy  head  is  thrust  up  into  the  breath  of  gods, 
Yet  thy  feet  on  the  dandelion  ground  ; 
Each  pool  of  the  sky  woos  thy  beauty. 
Every  shadow  ot  earth-tree  gossips  of  thee ; 
The  fancy  road  of  thy  song  I  pursue, 
I  loiter  in  the  blessed  vale  of  thy  heart. 

0  how  proud  I  feel  to  see  thy  face  . 
^    Hasting  to  meet  my  face,  as  a  flower 

Hurries  to  the  silken  shower  of  sunshine ! 

1  dare  to  say  that  thou  art  fed 

With  my  praising  words  lavished  over  thee  : 
I  dream  in  the  odour  of  thy  womanhood. 
Since  thou  belongst  me,  my  life  begins 


Homekotoba  ^  55 

To  be  very  important ;  I  have  to  walk 

Safely  on  the  clear  road  of  emerald  light, 

Safely  along  the  flower-rimmed  path  of  poesy. 

With  thy  hand  upon  thy  bosom, 

I  will  feel  all  the  mystery  of  thy  love ; 

With  my  hand  upon  my  brow, 

I  ask  thee  what  a  confidence  thou  feelst  in  me ; 

Casting  two  shadows  on  the  stream  of  Life, 

We  will  whistle  of  the  sweet  world  to  the  moon,   , 

III 

Thy  divinely  large  eyes,  O  lovely  lady, 
Gaze  beyond  our  world  into  a  hid  kingdom 
Of  coral-hued  beauty  and  sapphire  thought ; 
The  fragrance  from  thy  lips  which  are  a  rose 
Speaks  more  than  thy  golden  speech  : 


56  Homekotoba 

The  gossamers  tarry  around  thy  rose-IIps, 

Thou  seemst  unto  nie  a  vaporous  beauty 

Which  I  saw  upon  the  Spring  seas, 

Laying  me  down  on  the  silvery  sand  of  the  shore, 

With  my  soul  in  the  song  of  the  seas ; 

I  fear  that  thou  mayest  vanish  any  moment : 

What  a  fear  and  joy  I  feel 

In  my  sacred  marriage  with  thee  ! 

The  moon  marred  by  clouds  is  beautiful : 

Joy  mingled  with  fear  has  a  deeper  thrill. 

How  often  before  my  lips  opened, 

Wishir^  thy  impressive  kisses ; 

How  often  before  my  hands  stretched, 

Wishing  to  feel  thy  deep  bosom  : 

I  ever  dreamed  of  thee  amid  the  breezes, 

Under  the  shadows  of  flowers  and  stars  : 


Homekotoba  57 

If  my  present  union  with  thee  be  a  dream. 
The  dream  has  to  be  eternal. 
Everything  has  a  silent  hour  at  whiles  : 
Tis  sweet  to  bathe  in  the  silence  by  thy  side ; 
'Tis  sweeter  to  raise  the  head  from  the  sea-silence, 
And  to  stare  on  thy  high-born  face, 
Like  a  sea-ear  gatherer  on  the  sea-waves 
With  eyes  turned  toward  the  abandoned  shore. 
Then  in  the  stillness  of  eve  (yet  stirring- 
Enough  to  make  one  sweetly  sad),  I 
Bind  my  body  with  thine  own,  and  send 
My  soul  along  the  road  of  the  Divine  Unseen. 

IV 

The  soul  of  flower,  O  lovely  lady. 
Is  the  soul  of  poem  ;  the  soul  of  poem 


58  Homekotoha 

Is  thy  soul :  thou  art  like  a  faithful-eyed  caravan 

Across  the  waste,  bringing  heavenly  jewels. 

The  winds  come  from  east  and  west, 

But  thy  wind  of  heart  only  comes  from 

The  singing  woodland  of  Love. 

The  air  around  thy  bosom  grows  roseate 

By  the  fire  within  ;  from  the  ground 

Under  thy  feet  has  blossomed  a  daffodil : 

Thy  presence  is  the  presence  of  Sun. 

My  old  memory  and  new  dream  jauntily  come 

Riding  on  thy  eye-flash  of  pearl : 

Thou  art  the  soul  of  all  the  dawns. 

In  thy  soul  I  see  a  brook 

Whose  song  of  silvery  happiness  I  love  most, 

Since  I  tired  of  iron-buskined  song  j 

Thy  soul  w4th  a  far-away  voice 


Homekotoba  $9 

Like  that  of  an  eve  of  a  thousand  stars, 

Calls  me  to  a  task  of  high  yearning  ; 

I  see  my  face  in  the  mirror  of  thy  heart, 

And  triumphantly  smile,  thinking  that 

I  am  thy  husband  and  slave. 

Under  the  tree-shade  I  lay  me  down, 

And  smell  thy  balsam  breath  stealing 

Around  me  like  a  sweet  ancient  tale ; 

Upturning  my  face  I  draw 

Thy  lovely  shape  in  the  purple  sky : 

Since  I  love  thee,  my  life  grows  plain, 

My  dream  being  only  to  be  faithful  to  thee, 

My  toil  being  only  to  entertain  thee. 

The  life  of  simplicity  is  the  life  of  beauty  : 

With  the  beauty  and  with  thee  I  remain  forever. 


6o 


UPON  THE  HEIGHTS 

And  victor  of  life  and  silence, 

I  stood  upon  the  Heights ;  triumphant, 

With  upturned  eyes,  I  stood, 

And  smiled  unto  the  sun,  and  sang 

A  beautifully  sad  farewell  unto  the  dying  day, 

And  my  thoughts  and  the  eve  gathered 

Their  serpentine  mysteries  around  me, 

My  thoughts  like  alien  breezes, 

The  eve  like  a  fragrant  legend. 

My  feeling  was  that  I  stood  as  one 

Serenely  poised  for  flight,  as  a  muse 

Of  golden  melody  and  lofty  grace. 

Yea,  I  stood  as  one  scorning  the  swords 

And  wanton  menace  of  the  cities. 


upon  the  Heights  6 1 

Tlie  sun  had  heavily  sunk  into  the  seas  beyond, 
And  left  me  a  tempting  sweet  and  twilight. 
The  eve  with  trailing  shadows  westward 
Swept  on,  and  the  lengthened  shadows  of  trees 
Disappeared  :  how  silently  the  songs  of  silence 
Steal  into  my  soul !     And  still  I  stood 
Among  the  crickets,  in  the  beateous  profundity 
Sung  by  stars ;  and  I  saw  me 
Softly  melted  into  the  eve.     The  moon 
Slowly  rose  :  my  shadow  on  the  ground 
Dreamily  began  a  dreamy  roam. 
And  1  upward  smiled  silent  welcome. 


62  ^ 

THE  POET 

Out  of  the  deep  and  the  dark, 

A  sparkling  mystery,  a  shape. 

Something  perfect. 

Comes  like  the  stir  of  the  day  ; 

One  whose  breath  is  an  odour, 

Whose  eyes  show  the  road  to  stars. 

The  breeze  in  his  face. 

The  glory  of  Heaven  on  his  back. 

He  steps  like  a  vision  hung  in  air. 

Diffusing  the  passion  of  Eternity ; 

His  abode  is  the  sunlight  of  mom, 

The  music  of  eve  his  speech  : 

In  his  sight. 

One  shall  turn  from  the  dust  of  the  grave. 

And  move  upward  to  the  woodland. 


63 


THE  FACE  IN  THE  MIRROR 

'  Why  do  you  cry  so,  dear  little  girl  ? 
Come,  dry  your  tears,'  I  said, 

*  Like  a  dew-bathed  butterfly  in  the  sun  rays, 
And  then  tell  me  of  yourself/ 

The  girl  said  : 

*  My  kind  Danna  San,  'twas  this  mom 

When  the  breath  of  Spring  blew  along  the  mountain  path, 

That  I  went  up  alone  to  gather  wild-flowers, 

And  there  naughty  neighbour's  children  shouted  at  me  : 

"  Look  at  that  dirty  motherless  girl !  " 

Then  I  retorted  that  I  had  my  mother  in  the  mirror. 

And  I  ran  home  and  I  saw  the  mirror,^ 

Alas !  my  mother's  face  was  crying. 

Because  I  cried. 


64  The  Face  in  the  Mirror 

Then  I  felt  still  more  sad, 

And  cried  still  more, 

And  now  still  I  cry.' 

I  said  to  the  girl : 

'  Sweet  child,  the  face  in  the  mirror 

Is  not  your  mother's,  but  your  own/ 

The  girl  flinging  a  quick  opposing  look, 

Impatiently  said : 

'  So  many  many  years  older  than  I  you  are, 

So  much  more  wiser  than  I  you  are. 

But,  my  great  lord,  you  know  nothing  of  my  mirror. 

The  face  in  the  mirror  is  mother's, 

So  mother  said  : 

My  dear  mother  never  told  a  lie. 

The  mirror  was  left  me 

When  she  died,  and  she  said : 


The  Face  in  the  Mirror  65 

"  Whenever  you  want  to  see  me. 

You'll  find  me  in  the  mirror, 

I  a  thousand  times  have  looked  in  it. 

And  hidden  there  my  truest  face." 

Since  then,  every  eve  at  dusk, 

When  the  church  bell  sounds  to  me  like  mother's  call, 

I  hurry  to  my  mirror, 

And  I  see  my  mother  looking  at  me/ 

Then  I  said  : 

'  Listen,  dear  little  maiden, 

I  will  adorn  your  hair  with  the  flowers, 

I  will  give  you  money  for  a  new  Spring  dress, 

And  you  shall  smile,  that's  a  good  girl ! 

Aren't  you  happy  ? 

Now  look  at  your  mirror,  gentle  child.' 

The  girl  looked  in  the  mirror,  and  joyfully  exclaimed  : 


66  The  Face  in  the  Mirror 

'  Mother  is  happy. 

Because  I  am  happy. 

I'll  not  cry  any  more, 

You'll  cry  no  more,  my  dear  mother/ 

Then  we  lay  down  in  the  sunlight, 

With  her  pretty  head  on  my  knee. 

I  told  many  a  tale  of  fairy  queens  far  and  near. 

My  voice  was  music  to  her  ears, 

Her  head  languidly  drooped, 

Her  innocent  sleeping  face  in  the  mirror  by  her  side  : 

I  saw  the  breezes  playing  with  the  tassels  of  her  hair. 


67 


HOW  NEAR  TO  FAIRYLAND 

The  spring  warmth  steals  into  nie,  drying  up  all  the  tears  ot 

my  soul, 
And  gives  me  a  flight  into  the  vastness, — into  a  floorless, 

unroofed  reverie-hall. 

Lo,  such  greenness,  such  velvety  greenness,  such  a  heaven 

without  heaven  above ! 
I^,  again,  such  grayness,  such  velvety  grayness,  such  an 

earth  without  earth  below  ! 
My  soul  sails  through  the  waveless  mirror-seas. 

Oh,  how  near  to  Fairyland  ! 

Blow,  blow,  gust  of  wind  ! 

Sweep  away  my  soul-boat  against  that  very  shore  ! 


68 


LINES 

I  love  the  saintly  chant  of  the  winds  touching  their  odorous 

fingers  to  the  harp  of  the  angel  Spring ; 
I  love  the  undiscording  sound  of  thousands  of  birds,  whose 

concord  of  song  echoes  on  the  rivulet  afar ; 
I  muse  on  the  solemn  mountain  which  waits  in  sound  content 

for  the  time  when  the  Lord  calls  forth  ; 
I  roam  with  the  wings  of  high-raised  fantasy  in  the  pure 

universe; 
CHi,  I  chant  of  the  garden  of  Adam  and  Eve  ! 


69 


SPRING 

Spring, 

Winged  Spring, 

A  laughing  butterfly. 

Flashes  away, 

Rosy-cheeked  Spring, 

Angel  of  a  moment. 

The  little  shadow  of  my  lover  perfumed. 

Maiden  Spring, 

Now  fades, 

The  shadew. 

The  golden  shadow. 

With  all  the  charm. 

Spring,  ^ 

Naughty  sweet  Spring:, 


JO  spring 

A  proud  coquette, 

Bom  to  laugh  but  not  to  live. 

Spring, 

Flying  Spring, 

A  beautiful  runaway, 

Leaves  me  in  tears, 

But  my  soul  follows  after, 

Till  I  catch  her. 

Next  March. 

Spring, 

Spring ! 


FROM  "THE  SUMMER  CLOUDS"  (1906) 


73 


PROSE  POEMS 
"  The  Summer  clouds  rise  in  shape  of  fantastic  peaks." 

I 

Wave,  wave,  black  hair  of  my  Beauty,  wave,  and  wave, 
and  show  me  where  the  love  deepens,  and  the  forest  silence 
thickens  ;  show  me  where  Peace  is  buried  with  heavy  wings, 
and  where  hours  never  grow  gray  ! 

Wave,  wave,  black  hair  of  my  Beauty,  wave,  and  wave, 
and  show  me  where  the  shadows  are  gold,  and  the  airs  are 
honey,  show  me  the  heart — joy  of  Life  and  world ;  wave  and 
wave,  black  hair  of  my  Beauty  ! 

II 

Touch  me  with  thy  soft  hands,  O  Yuki  San  !  They  are 
soft  as   moonbeams   on   the   singing   sands,    O   Yuki    San ! 


74  f^ose  Poems 

They  are  soft  as  kisses  of  the  eve,  thy  soft  hands  ;  they  are 
soft  as  rivulets  over  the  Spring  lands,  O  Yuki  San  ! 

Oh,  touch  me  again  with  thy  soft  hands,  O  Yuki  San  ! 
I  feel  the  passion  and  Truth  of  forgotten  ages  in  their 
touches,  O  Yuki  San  !  I  feel  the  songs  and  incense  in  their 
touches,  O  Yuki  San  !       -      .  ^' 

Here  by  the  sea  I  sit  from  dawn  till  the  dusk,  O  Yuki 
San !  I  dream  of  thy  soft  hands,  soft  as  soft  foams  on 
the  laughing  shore,  O  Yuki  San  !  The  sun  is  gone  and  the 
soft  moon  is  rising,  but  never  thy  soft  hands  again,  O  Yuki 
San! 

m 

The  rain  stopped  suddenly,  when  the  moon  made  her 
way  in  the  sky.  O  Moon  !  thou  art  not  the  ball  of  fire  and 
poetry,   but  thou  art  the  mirror  of  my  Lady  Beauty  who 


Prose  Poems  75 

imparts  her  own  Beauty  and  Truth,  day  and  night ! 

Here  upon  the  garden  of  roses  (roses  are  my  Lady 
Beauty's  favourite  flowers)  I  stand.  My  soul  rises  from  the 
odours  and  earth,  and  comes  close  to  the  moon.  O  Moon  ! 
my  Lady  Beauty's  mirror,  make  my  soul  and  Love  nobler 
by  Beauty  and  Truth  which  my  Lady  Beauty  imparts.  I 
think  only  of  my  Lady  Beauty  whose  work  of  life  was  to 
turn  my  soul  and  Love  to  gold.  Oh,  where  is  she,  this  very 
moment? 

IV 

Out  of  the  gray  forest  (Forest  ?  It  is  the  forest.  But 
I  doubt  whether  it  was  not  a  shadow)  I  hear  the  gray 
voice  of  a  bird.  Oh,  lonely  bird,  art  thou  still  sad?  Art 
thou  still  keeping  comradeship  with  Death  and  Darkness? 
So  am  I — a  poet  quietly  leaning  on   the   wall  of  sadness. 


76  Prose  Poetns 

I  bum  incetise  and  pray  once  in  a  while.  How  afraid  I 
am  to  stir  up  the  air  of  silence  !  Spring  is  coming  so  slow. 
My  soul  is  kissing  the  Heart  of  Voicelessness. 

I  hear  the  gray  voice  of  the  bird  sinking  and  sinking 
far  down  like  a  dead  leaf.  Where  does  it  go  ?  It  is  like  my 
soul  which  started  somewhere  without  purpose,  and  is  sailing 
without  end.     Oh,  where  does  my  soul  aim  to  go  ? 

And  again  I  hear  another  gray  voice  of  another  bird 
out  of  the  gray  forest. 

Dear  lonely  Voice,  tell  me  where  thou  want'st  to  go  ! 
Art  thou  going  into  the  silver  temple  of  the  immortal 
moonlight?  Art  thou  going  into  the  dusky  bosom  of  the 
Mother-Rest  ?     Pray,  take  my  soul  with  thee,  O  comrade  ! 

V 

The  happy  little  songs  go  to-day  under  the  arms  of  a 


fyose  Poems  jy 

wind  :  my  heart  will  go  with  them,  wherever  they  go.  As 
the  little  voices  of  the  leaves  they  go,  laughing  and  singing. 
Now  they  are  suddenly  still,  when  the  white  dews  fall  under 
the  stars.  Is  it  not  the  time  for  them  to  hurry  to  their  beds 
in  the  House  of  Peace  by  the  mountain  flowers  ?  My  heart 
will  be  happy  and  go  with  them  wherever  they  go. 

VI 

I  hear  you  call.  Pine-tree,  I  hear  you  upon  the  hill ;  by 
the  silent  pond  where  the  lotos  flowers  bloom,  I  hear  you 
call,  Pine-tree ! 

What  is  it  you  call.  Pine-tree,  when  the  rains  fall,  when 
the  winds  blow,  and  when  the  stars  appear,  what  is  it  you 
call.  Pine-tree? 

I  hear  you  call.  Pine-tree,  but  I  am  blind,  and  do  not 
know  how  to  reach  you,  Pine-tree.     Who  will  take  me  to 


JS  Prose  Poems 

you,  Pine-tree? 

vn 

Out  of  the  cradle  of  great  Silence,  from  under  the  grave 
(do  you  feel  Silence's  touch  ?)  the  poet,  the  singer  of  Seen 
and  Unseen,  still  sings  his  voiceless  song — the  song  of  the 
land  of  shadow  and  agelessness,  the  song  of  the  land  of  peace 
and  memory,  the  song  of  the  land  of  Silence  and  mist !  I 
hear,  O  poet,  thy  new  melody  of  voicelessness,  thy  sweet 
song  of  eternal  Spring  eve,  thy  song  like  that  of  the  moon 
over  the  land  of  sleep,  thy  song  of  Heaven  and  love !  O 
poet,  thy  song  fills  my  heart  with  sweet  unrest  and  with 
dreams  like  passing  clouds  !  O  poet,  thy  song  comes  from 
under  the  grave — out  of  the  cradle  of  Silence,  like  the  flowing 
tide! 


Prose  Poems  79 

VIII 

The  Spring  field,  calm,  odorous,  like  the  breast  of 
Heaven,  waving  in  red  and  green,  like  a  flowing  sea  in  tune 
of  breeze.  A  thousand  birds,  like  ships,  singing  of  Spring 
hope,  searching  after  a  joyous  life.  (O  bird-ships  on  the 
newest  sea !) 
.     "  What  news,  speak,  dear  ships  from  another  land  ?  " 

"  Only  a  love-message,  my  lord  I  " 

IX 

I  and  Nature  are  one  \n  sweet  weariness  :  my  soul  slowly 
fades  into  Sleep.  Is  this  earth  ?  Or  Heaven  ?  The  summer 
odour  sweetens  Nature  to  dream  :  the  trees  and  birds  murmur 
with  a  breeze. 

*'  I  am  blind,  deaf,  and  also  dumb  ;  I  am  a  traveller 
toward  God,  alas  !  without  a  guide,"  I  say. 


8o  Prose  Poetns 

Oh,    deathlessness !     Oh,    happiness !     I   and   Summer 
spirits  play  upon  a  vast  sea  ol  fancy. 


FROM  '^  PILGRIMAGE/'  (1909) 


83 
"THE  NEW  ART" 

She  is  an  art  (let  me  call  her  so) 

Hung  as  a  web  in  the  air  of  perfume, 

Soft  yet  vivid,  she  sways  in  music  : 

(But  what  sadness  in  her  saturation  of  life  !) 

Her  music  lives  in  the  intensity  of  a  moment,  and  then  dies ; 

To  her  suggestion  is  life. 

She  left  behind  the  quest  of  beauty  and  dream  ; 

Is  her  own  self  not  the  song  of  dream  and  beauty  itself? 

(I  know  she  is  tired  of  ideal  and  problem  and  talk.) 

She  is  the  moth-light  playing  on  reality's  dusk, 

Soon  to  die  as  a  savage  prey  of  the  moment ; 

She  is  a  creation  of  surprise  (let  me  say  so). 

Dancing  gold  on  the  wire  of  impulse. 

What  an  elf  of  light  and  shadow  ! 

What  a  fksh  of  tragedy  and  beauty  1 


84 


BY  THE  ENGAKUJI  TEMPLE :  MOON  NIGHT 

Through  the  breath  of  perfume, 
(O  music  of  musics  !) 
Down  creeps  the  moon 
To  fill  my  cup  of  song 
With  memory's  wine. 

Across  the  song  of  night  and  moon, 

(O  perfume  of  perfumes  !) 

My  soul,  as  a  wind 

Whose  heart's  too  full  to  sing, 

Only  roams  astray    .     .     , 

Down  the  tide  of  the  sweet  night 
(O  the  ecstasy's  gentle  rise  !) 
The  birds,  flowers  and  trees 


By  the  Engakuji  Temple:  Moon  Night  85 

Are  glad  at  once  to  fall 
Into  Oblivion*s  ruin  white. 


86 


TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

Creator  of  the  only  one  song  ! 

Triumph,  rapture  and  art  thou  tellest 

But  with  thy  self-same  word,  what  mystery ! 

I  have  a  few  more  songs  and  dreams  than  thou, 

(Alas,  my  words  not  serving  at  my  command  !) 

I  tremble,  hesitate  before  I  sing : 

What  carelessness  in  thy  rush  with  song. 

Splendour  is  thine  to  sing  into  air,  be  forgotten ! 

Thou  singest  out,  thou  pushest  thy  song's  way, 

Without  regard  to  the  others  waiting  their  turns, 

(Pity  the  other  birds  and  poets  !) 

What  a  sweet  bit  of  thy  barbarism  I 

I  know  not  technically  what  thy  song  means : 

I  take  thee  not  only  for  a  bird  but  the  poet. 


To  a  Nightingale  %^ 

Thou  art  a  revolter  against  prosody  : 

What  a  discoverer  of  the  newest  language  ! 

A  man's  life  and  art  are  disturbed  by  thy  song, 

(What  exhaustion  in  thy  voice, 

What  a  feast  and  sensation  of  thy  life  !) 

When  thou  changest  him  to  become  thy  kin,— 

A  thing  of  simplicity  and  force  ; 

Thy  song  stops,  thou  fliest  away. 

Oh,  can  thy  work  be  done  so  swift  ? 

Didst  thou  see  thy  song's  future  in  him  ? 

Thou  art  suggestion  :  what  a  fragment  of  art ! 


ss 


I  AM  LIKE  A  LEAF 

The  silence  is  broken  :  into  the  nature 

My  soul  sails  out, 
Carrying  the  song  of  life  on  his  brow, 

To  meet  the  flowers  and  birds. 

When  my  heart  returns  in  the  solitude, 

She  is  very  sad, 
Looking  back  on  the  dead  passions 

Lying  on  Love's  ruin. 

I  am  like  a  leaf 

Hanging  over  hope  and  despair, 
Which  trembles  and  joins 

The  world's  imagination  and  ghost. 


89 


TO  THE  SUNFLOWER 

Thou  burstest  from  mood : 

How  sad  we  have  to  cling  to  experience ! 

Marvel  of  thy  every  atom  burning  of  life, 

How  fully  thou  livest ! 

Didst  thou  ever  think  to  turn  to  cold  and  shadow  ? 

Passionate  liver  of  sunlight, 

Symbol  of  youth  and  pride ; 

Thou  art  a  lyric  of  thy  soaring  colour ; 

Thy  voicelessness  of  song  is  action. 

What  absorption  of  thy  life's  meaning. 

Wonder  of  thy  consciousness, — 

Mighty  sense  of  thy  existence  ! 


90 

SHADOW 

My  song  is  sung,  but  a  moment     ,     .     .    •    . 

The  song  of  voice  is  merely  the  body,  (the  body  dies,) 

And  the  real  part  of  the  song,  its  soul,  remains  after  it  is 

sung  : 
Yea,  it  remains  in  the  vibration  of  thy  waves  of  heart-sea 
Echoing  still  my  song,  (O  shadow  my  song  threw  !) 
In  thy  heart's  thrill  I  see  my  far  truer  and  whiter  soul, 
And  through  my  soul  thou  soarest  out  of  thy  dust  and  griefs. 

•     •••••••••     Spring  passed, 

(Spring  in  roses  and  birds  is  merely  the  body,) 

And  I  see  the  greater  Spring  (O  soul-shadow  she  left !) 

In  the  Summer  forest,  luminous  in  green  and  dream  : 

Oh  to  be  that  Spring  over  the  word's  Summer  valley, 

O  shadow  I  may  cast  in  the  after-age,  O  my  shadow  of  soul  ^ 


91 


THE  FANTASTIC  SNOW-FLAKES 

Bah  !     What  fantastic  snow-flakes,  eh. 
Dancing  merrily,  ha  !  ha  !  ha ! 
Lo,  their  tiny  feet  raising  so  ! 

Death  is  sweet,  to  be  sure. 
Laughing  they  go  to  death, 
Wliat  delicious  teeth,  ha  !  ha !  ha ! 

Suppose  we  d^e  together,  eh, 
With  the  snow  dying  upon  a  pond  ? 
What  a  fantastic  end,  ha  !  ha  !  ha ! 

What  a  fantastic  end  to  die 

In  the  dying  music  of  ancient  love  ! 

Behold  the  ^now  and  music  die  1 


92  The  Fantastic  Snow-flakes 

What  a  coward,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  I 

Are  you  afraid  to  die,  eh  ? 

Still  you  love  a  little  caprice  of  world  ? 

What  fantastic  snow-flakes,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
To  leave  no  sorrow  and  to  die ! 
Such  a  coward,  you  my  beloved ! 


93 


GHOST  OF  ABYSS 

My  dreams  rise  when  the  rain  falls  :  the  sudden  songs 
Flow  about  my  ears  as  the  clouds  in  June  ; 
And  the  footsteps,  lighter  than  the  heart  of  wind, 
Beat,  now  high,  then  low,  before  my  dream-flaming  eyes. 

"  Who  am  I  ?  "  said  I.     *'  Ghost  of  abyss,'*  a  Voice  replied, 
"  Piling  an  empty  stone  of  song  on  darkness  of  night, 
Dancing  wild  as  a  fire,  only  to  vanish  away." 


94 


AUTUMN  SONG 

The  gold  vision  of  a  bird-wind  sways  on  the  silver  foam  of 

song, 
The  oldest  song  rises  again  on  the  Autumn  heart  of  dream. 

The  ghost  castle  of  glory  is  built  by  the  sad  magic  of  Time, 

With  the  last  laughter  of  sorrow,  and  with  the  red  tempest  of 
leaves. 

My  little  soul  born  out  of  the  dews  of  singing  dawn, 
Bids  farewell  to  the  large  seas  of  Life  and  speech. 


95 


FANTASIA 

Bits  of  straw  and  clay  and  woman's  hair, — 

So  shall  be  builded  my  house  ; 

Oh  to  lose  the  world  and  gain  a  song  ! 

I^t  the  clouds  flit  through  the  window  at  the  left ; 

The  dancer  shapeless  in  pain  and  pride, 

From  the  right  dance  in  as  a  tide  : 

A  spirit  of  pagan  days,  sick  in  joy, 

That  rose  at  the  sound  of  their  stamping  feet, 

I'll  sing  a  song  that  makes  the  seas  the  hills. 

(Morality  begins,  1  am  afraid,  where  I  stop  my  song.) 

Rags  to  roll  me  in,  pieces  of  dream, 

So  with  my  heart  of  nocturnal  fear  ; 

I  have  chose  of  the  sky  red  in  memory  and  art. 

Let  the  stars  fall  in  the  garden  rose  : 


96  Fantasia 

The  leaves  and  my  souls  in  a  thousand  guises 
Hurry  to  the  ground  to  build  a  grave. 


91 


THE  TEMPLE  BELL 

Trembling  in  its  thousand  ages, 

Dark  as  its  faith, 

It  wails,  hunting  me, 

(It's  a  long  time  since  I  lost  my  faith,) 

Up  through  the  silence  with  a  scorn, 

Heavy  but  not  unkind. 

Out  of  the  dusk  of  the  temple  and  night 

Into  my  heart  of  dusk, 

Hushed  after  my  song  of  cities  played, 

Weary  and  grey  in  thought. 

My  heart  replies  to  the  wail  of  the  bell, 

Slow-bosomed  in  sadness  and  faith, 

With  my  memory  rising  from  dusts, 

Namu  amida  butsu  !     Namu  amida  butsu  ! 


98 

TO  THE  CICADA 

What  a  sudden  pain  of  ancient  soul, — 

A  tear  that  is  a  voice,  a  voice-  that  is  a  tear  ! 

What  unforgotten  tragedy  thou  tellest  in  thy  break  of  heart ! 

Min  tnin,  mitiy  min,  niimninminminmin     .     .     .     .     / 

Grey  singer  of  the  forest  with  heart  of  fire. 
Dost  thon  cry  for  the  world,  or  for  my  love  and  life  ? 
Is  thy  monotony  of  voice  the  tragedy  of  my  song  ? 
Mri^  min,  min,  min,  minminminminmin     .     .     .     .     / 

The  soul  that  reads  the  sorrow  of  life  knows  thy  heart : 

Cry  till  the  world  and  life  gain  the  triumph  of  death  ! 

Let  us  earn  Death  through  the  tragedy  of  Faith  ! 

O  singer  of  sad  Faith  and  only  one  song, — 

Cry  out  thy  old  dream  of  life  and  tears ! 

Min,  min,  min,  min,  minminminminmin     .     •     •     .     / 


99 


THE  LADY  OF  UTAMARO^S  ART 

Too  common  to  say  she  is  the  beauty  of  iine. 

However,  the  h*ne  old,  spiritualised  into  odour, 

(The  odour  soared  into  an  everlasting  ghost  from  life  and 

death,) 
As  a  gossamer,  the  handiwork  of  dream, 
Tis  left  free  as  it  flaps  : 

The  lady  of  Utamaro's  Art  is  the  beauty  of  zephyr  flow. 
I  say  again,  the  line  with  the  breath  of  love. 
Enwrapping  my  heart  to  be  a  happy  prey : 
S^ensuous  ?     To  some  so  she  may  appear, 
But  her  sensuousness  divinised  into  the  word  of  love. 
To-day  I  am  with  her  in  silence  of  twilight  eve, 
And  am  afraid  she  may  vanish  into  the  mist. 


lOO 


THE  BUDDHA  PRIEST  IN  MEDITATION 

He  is  a  style  of  monotony. 

His  religion  is  aloofness, 

Is  there  any  simplicity  more  beautiful  ? 

What  a  grand  leisure  in  his  walk 

On  the  road  of  mystery  : 

Is  there  any  picture  more  real, 

More  permanent  than  he  ? 

He  surrenders  against  faith  : 

He  walks  on  mystery's  road,*-— that  is  enough. 

He  never  quests  why. 

He  feels  a  touch  beyond  word. 

He  reads  the  silencers  sigh, 

And  prays  before  his  own  soul  and  destiny : 

He  is  a  pseudonym  of  the  universal  consciousness. 


The  Buddha  Priest  in  Meditation  ,  loi 

A  person  lonesome  from  concentration. 

He  is  possessed  of  Nature's  instinct, 

And  burns  white  as  a  flame  ; 

His  morality  and  accident  of  life 

No  longer  exist, 

But  only  the  silence  and  soul  of  prayer. 


I02 


IN  THE  INLAND  SEA 

Here  the  waters  of  wine  with  far-off  desires. 

Here  the  April  breezes  with  purple  flashes  familiar  and  yet 

forgotten. 
Oh,  here  the  twilight  of  the  Inland  Sea  ! 
Here  I  hear  a  song  without  a  word, 
(Is  it  the  song  of  my  flying  soul  ?) 
That's  the  song  of  my  dream  I  dreamed  a  thousand  years 

ago. 
Oh,  my  dream  of  the  fairy  world,  oh,  the  beauty  of  the 

Inland  Sea ! 
I  sail  and  sail  to-day  in  this  fairy  sea, 
(O  my  heart,  hear  the  sailors'  song  of  life  !) 
I  sail  leaving  the  welcoming  isles  far  behind, 
(Hear  the  isles  bidding  adieu,  O  my  heart !) 


y 


\ 


In  the  Inland  Sea  1 03 

I  sail  toward  the  chanting  sky. 

O  birds  with  white  souls,  steer  my  soul  with  white  love, 
Here  the  sea  of  my  dream,  Oh,  the  beauty  of  the  Inland 
Seal 


I04 


KYOTO 

Mist-born  Kyoto,  the  city  of  scent  and  prayer, 
Like  a  dream  half-fading,  she  lingers  on  : 
The  oldest  song  of  a  forgotten  pagoda  bell 
Is  the  Kamo  River's  twilight  song. 

The  girls,  half  whisper  and  half  love, 
As  old  as  a  straying  moonbeam, 
Flutter  on  the  streets  gods  built, 
Lightly  carrying  Spring  and  passion. 

"  Stop  a  while  with  me,"  I  said. 
They  turned  their  powdered  necks.     How  delicious  ! 
"  No,  thank  you,  some  other  time,"  they  replied. 
Oh,  such  a  smile  like  the  breath  of  a  rose  ! 


I05 


MY  LITTLE  BIRD 

My  little  bird, 

My  bird  born  in  my  Mother's  tears. 

She  flies, 

Stretching  her  wings  so, 

And  from  under  her  wings  she  drops  my  Mother's  message  : 

"  Come  home,  Beloved  !" 

Running  out  from  my  Mother's  bosom. 

My  little  river. 

She  suddenly  stopped  her  song, 

And  looking  up  to  the  sun, 

She  in  her  ripples  flashed  my  Mother's  message : 

**  Beloved,  come  home  !" 


io6  My  Little  Bird 

My  roses. 

My  little  roses  grow  in  my  Mother's  breath, 

They  are  sad  to-day, 

Casting  their  faces  down  ; 

On  their  petals  I  read  my  Mother's  message : 

'*  Come  home.  Beloved  !'' 


107 


HER  WEAPONS  ARE  A  SMILE  AND 
A  LITTLE  FAN 

Her  weapons  are  a  smile  and  a  little  fan. 
Sayonara,  sayonara     •     .     . 
Her  bent  neck  like  that  of  a  stork 
Seeking  a  jewel  of  heart  in  the  ground  ! 
Her  wisdom  is  folded  sweet  in  her  bosom. 
Sayonara,  sayonara     .     •     • 
Her  flapping  robe  like  a  cloud 
That  follows  a  lyric  of  butterfly  ! 
Her  song  is  on  her  tips  of  naked  feet. 
Sayonara,  sayonara     .     •     • 
Beat  of  her  wooden  clogs 
Playing  the  unseen  strings  of  love  ! 


io8 


MY  HEART    .. 

Oh  Lord,  Is  it  the  reflection  of  my  heart  of  fire  ? 

Is  it,  my  Lord,  the  sunset  flashes  of  the  Western  sky  ? 

Oh  Lord,  is  it  the  echo  of  my  heart  of  unrest  ? 

Is  it,  my  Lord,  the  cry  of  a  sea  breaking  on  the  sand  ? 

Oh  Lord,  is  it  the  voice  of  my  sorrowful  heart  ? 

Is  it,  my  Lord,  the  wail  of  a  wind  seeking  the  road  in  the 

dark? 
Oh  Lord,  is  it  the  dripping  tears  of  my  heart  ? 
Is  it,  my  Lord,  the  rain  carrying  tragedy  from  the  Heavens  ? 


I09 


THE  LOTUS  WORSHIPPERS 

From  dale  and  hill  the  worshippers  steal 

In  whitest  robes  :  yea,  with  whitest  souls. 

They  sit  around  the  holy  pond,  the  lotus  home, 

Their  finger-tips  folded  like  the  hushing  lotus-buds 

Thrust  through  the  water  and  twilight,  nun-like, 

And  they  pray   (^the  silent  prayer  that  is  higher  than  the 

prayer  of  speech). 
The  stars  and  night  suddenly  cease  their  song, 
The  air  and  birds  begin  to  stir. 
(O  Resurrection,  Resurrection  of  World  and  Life  !) 
Lo,  Sun  ascending  !    The  lotus  buds  flash  with  hearts  parted. 
With  one  chant  *'  Namu,  Amida  !" 
The  stars  disappear,  nay,  they  fall  in  their  hearts. 
The  worshippers  turn  their  silent  steps  toward  their  homes, 


no  The  Loiuii   Worshippers 

Learning  that  the  stars  will  fall  in  their  truthful  souls, 
And  the  road  of  sunlight  is  the  road  of  prayer, 
And  for  Paradise. 

Their  faces  shining  under  the  sun's  blessing  gold, 
They  chant  the  divine  name  along  the  woodland. 


X 


Ill 


LINES 

Tlie  sun  I  worship, 

Not  for  the  light,  but  for  the  shadows  of  the  trees  he  draws  : 
O  shadows  welcome  like  an  angel's  bower, 
Where  I  build  Summer-day  dreams ! 
Not  for  her  love,  but  for  the  love's  memory, 
The  woman  I  adore  ; 

Love  may  die,  but  not  the  memory  eternally  green— 
The  well  where  I  drink  Spring  ecstasy. 
To  a  bird's  song  I  listen, 

Not  for  the  voice,  but  for  the  silence  following  after  the  song  : 
O  Silence  fresh  from  the  bosom  of  voice  ! — 
Melody  from  the   Death-Land  whither  my  face  does  ever 
turn ! 


112 


THE  EASTERN  SEA 

I  say  my  farewell  to  the  Western  cities ; 

I  will  return  to  the  Eastern  Sea, — 

To  my  isle  kissed  first  ever  by  the  sun, — 

I  will  now  go  to  my  sweetest  home. 

And  lay  there  my  griefs  on  a  mountain's  breast, 

And  give  all  my  songs  to  the  birds,  and  sleep  long. 

A  wind  may  stir  the  forest,  I  may  awake, 

I  will  whistle  my  joy  of  life  up  to  a  cloud  : 

The  life  of  the  cloud  will  be  my  life  there. 

How  tall  my  lover  now  will  be  ! 

She  was  two  inches  shorter  than  I  long  ago. 

When  mid  the  wistarias  the  moon-lantern  is  lit, 

She  and  I  will  steal  to  measure  our  heights 

By  their  drooping  flowers — drooping  calm  like  peace. 


The  Eastern  Sea  113 

Should  she  win,  I  will  pay  her  my  kisses  seven  : 

I  will  take  her  seven  kisses  if  I  win  : 

So  all  the  same  the  kisses  shall  be  mine. 

Then  we  will  walk  by  the  idols — the  saint's  and  the  poet's, 

And  assure  them  that  Life  is  but  Love  ; 

With  Love  and  chrysanthemum  I  will  remain  forever. 


U4 


TO  A  SPARROW 

Sudden  ghost 

That  danced  out  again  from  the  shadow  and  rest, 

Hunter  of  the  memory  and  colour  of  thy  last  life, 

Dost  thou  find  the  same  humanity,  the  same  dream  ? 

Consecrator  of  every  moment, 

Holder  of  the  genius  for  living. 

Thy  one  moment  might  be  our  ten  years : 

Does  it  tempt,  console  and  frighten  thee  ? 

Ghost  of  nerve. 

If  thy  voice  be  curse. 

It  is  with  all  thy  soul. 

If  it  be  repentance^ 

It  is  with  all  thy  body. 

Oh,  would  that  I  could  relish  the  same  sensation  as  thou  ! 


"S 


RIGHT  AND  LEFT 

The  mountain  green  at  my  right : 
The  sunlight  yellow  at  my  left : 
The  laughing  winds  pass  between. 

The  river  white  at  my  left  : 
The  flowers  red  at  my  right : 
The  laughing  girls  go  between. 

The  clouds  sail  away  at  my  right : 
The  birds  flap  down  at  my  left : 
The  laughing  moon  appears  between. 

I  turned  left  to  the  dale  of  poem  ; 
I  turned  right  to  the  forest  of  Love  : 
But  I  hurry  Home  by  the  road  between. 


Ii6 


IN  JAPAN  BEYOND 

Do  you  not  hear  the  sighing  of  a  willow  in  Japan, 
(In  Japan  beyond,  in  Japan  beyond) 
In  the  voice  of  a  wind  searching  for  the  sun  lost, 
For  the  old  faces  with  memory  in  eyes  ? 

Do  you  not  hear  the  sighing  of  a  bamboo  in  Japan, 

(In  Japan  beyond,  in  Japan  beyond) 

In  the  voice  of  a  sea  urging  with  the  night, 

For  the  old  dreams  of  a  twilight  tale  ? 

Do  you  not  hear  the  sighing  of  a  pine  in  Japan, 
(In  Japan  beyond,  in  Japan  beyond) 
In  the  voice  of  a  river  in  quest  of  the  Unknown, 
For  the  old  ages  with  gold  in  heart  ? 


In  Japan  Beyond  \\^ 

Do  you  not  hear  the  sighing  of  a  reed  in  Japan, 
i\n  Japan  beyond,  in  Japan  beyond) 
In  the  voice  of  a  bird  who  long  ago  flew  away. 
For  the  old  peace  with  velvet-sandalled  feet  ? 


118 


CRADLE  SONGS 

1 

Sleep,  my  love,  your  way  of  dream 

By  the  fireflies  shall  be  lighted, 

That  I  gather  from  the  heart  of  night. 

Your  father  is  off,  good  night. 

To  buy  the  honey  from  the  stars  : 

The  city  of  stars  is  away  a  hundred  miles. 

But  by  the  dawn  he  wilf  return, 

Riding  on  the  horse  of  the  dews, 

For  you,  with  a  drum  as  big  as  the  sun. 


Cradle  Songs  119 

II 

The  flowers  are  nodding 

Above  your  head  ; 

The  flowers  are  made  with  sorrows  seven, 

And  laughters  three  which  are  the  best. 

The  sorrows  seven  your  mother  keeps, 
(Mother's  way  is  that  of  pain,) 
But  the  laughters  three  make  you  fair  and  gay, 
I  rock  you,  fairy  boat  on  the  t.'de  of  love. 

Sleep,  my  own,  till  the  bell  of  dusk 
Bring  the  stars  laden  with  a  dream  ; 
With  that  dream  you  shall  awake 
Between  tb.e  laughters  and  song. 


FROM  "JAPANESE  HOKKUS  "  (1920) 


123 


JAPANESE  HOKKUS 

I 

What  IS  life  ?     A  voice, 

A  thought,  a  light  on  the  dark,- 

Lo,  crow  in  the  sky. 

II 

Sudden  pain  of  earth 
I  hear  in  the  fallen  leaf. 
"  Life's  autumn,'*  I  cry, 

III 

The  silence-leaves  from  Life, 
Older  than  dream  or  pain, — 
Are  they  my  passing  ghost  ? 


124  lapanese  Hokkiis 

IV 

Is  it  not  the  cry  of  a  rose  to  be  saved  ? 

Oh,  how  could  I 

When  I,  in  fact,  am  the  rose ! 

V 
But  the  march  to  Life     .     •     • 
Break  song  to  sing  the  new  song  ! 
Clouds  leap,  flowers  bloom. 

VI 
Fallen  leaves  !     Nay,  spirits  ? 
Shall  I  go  downward  with  thee 
By  a  stream  of  Fate  ? 

VII     , 
Speak  not  again,  Voice  ! 
The  silence  washes  off  sins  : 
Come  not  again.  Light ! 


Japanese  Hokkus  125 

VIII 

It  is  too  late  to  hear  a  nightingale  ? 

Tut,  tut,  tut,     .     .     .     some  bird  sings, — • 

That's  quite  enough,  my  friend. 

IX 
I  shall  cry  to  thee  across  the  years  ? 
Wilt  thou  turn  thy  face  to  respond 
To  my  own  tears  with  thy  smile  ? 

X 
Where  the  flowers  sleep, 
Thank  God  !     I  shall  sleep,  to-night. 
Oh,  come,  butterfly ! 

XI 
My  Love's  lengthened  hair 
Swings  o'er  me  from  Heaven's  gate  : 
I^,  Evening's  shadow  ! 


1^6  Japanese  Hokkus 


XII 
Is  there  anything  new  under  the  sun  ? 
Certainly  there  is. 
See  how  a  bird  flies,  how  flowers  smile  ! 


Criticisms  of  Mr.  Noguchi's  Works 

He  is  a  poet  whose  flame  has  been  so  scrupulously  tended  as  to  flicker 
with  the  slightest  breath.  He  is  as  many-mooded  as  the  combinations 
between  sunshine  and  shadow.  His  poetry  actually  is  the  thing  that  lias 
induced  a  mood  in  him,  trimmed  of  all  that  he  ha  1  had  to  remove  for 
himself,  and  so  made  into  something  between  nature  and  that  pnre  elava- 
tion  of  mind  from  which  Noguchi  feels.  This  quality  of  pure  flame  like 
emotion— is  common  to  all  his  poems,  extraordinarily  various  as  they  are. 
—Arthur  Eansome  in  The  Forfnighfly  Review. 

Criticism,  in  the  usual  sense,  seems  a  cumbrously  concrete  form  of  ap- 
preciation of  such  rainbow  tints  and  perfumed  whispers  as  make,  for  the 
most  part,  Mr.  Noguchi's  poems.  A  vivid  Autumn  leaf  carried  on  the 
wind,  a  handful  of  rose  petals,  "  a  straying  moonbeam  "  for  these  we 
need  equally  delicate  exclamations — exclamations  which  have  an  added 
charm  of  naivete  from  being  made  in  a  language  whicli  he  stilt  writes,  I 
am  glad  to  say,  with  a  Japanese  accent.  I  hope  he  will  never  lose  that. 
— EiCHARD  Le  Gallienne  in  I'he  New  York  Times. 

The  spirit  of  his  poetry  is  at  once  wistful  and  complacent— a  curious 
blending  of  the  cynical  with  the  aspiring -and  bears  tokens  of  certain 
Western  influences. — The  Athenceum. 

Out  of  the  many  colours  comes  a  rainbow,  Some  of  Mr.  Noguchi's 
verses  seem  to  us  to  be  fine  poetry— authentic,  but  not  to  be  classified 
— 2%e  Spectator. 

It  is  enough  to  prove  that  Mr.  Noguchi  is  a  poet,  for  it  contains  only 
simple,  familiar  words,"  and  without  straining  any  of  them  it  combines 


them  in  a  way  that  gives  a  shock  of  astonishing  loveliness.  —  TAe  Daily 
Chronicle 

They  certainly  seem  to  show  that  the  Japanese  genius  can  put  on  a 
Western  language  as  easily  as  a  Western  civilisation.  There  is  great 
facility  of  language,  with  a  quaint  exotic  grace.  —  The  St.  Jameses  Gazette. 

It  has  real  suggestion  and  mystery. — The  Academy. 

Yone  Noguchi,  writing  in  English,  has  the  equipment  of  the  poet  born 
in  a  golden  clime.  —  Vanity  Fair. 

I  find  atmosphere,  and  charm,  and  colour,  and  naivete,  and  the  true 
touch  of  the  poet — William  Sharp. 

Your  poems  are  another  instance  of  the  energy,  mysteriousness,  and 
poetical  feeling  of  the  Japanese,  from  whom  we  are  receiving  much 
instruction.— George  Meredith. 

They  are  full  of  a  rich  sense  of  beauty,  and  ideal  sentiment.  In  fact . 
the  essential  excellence  of  the  poems  and  the  particular  quality  of  their 
excellence  surprise  me. —William  M.  Kossetti. 

You  have  been  remarkably  successful  in  coveying  that  sentiment  of 
poetical  reverie  which  you  desire  to  produce. — Dr    Richard  Garnett. 

I  am  much  attracted  by  the  novel  metaphors  and  qualifying  words 
which  often  are  full  of  beauty,  the  luxuriance  of  phrase  suggesting  beds 
of  Eastern  flowers  under  the  moonlight." — Thomas  Hardy. 

They  are  really  poems,  really  poetry.— Mrs.  Meynell. 


JAPANESE  HOKKUS 

BY 
YONE  NOGUCHI 

$  2,00  net 

"'Japanese  Hdkkus '  is  remarkable  for  at  least 
two  reasons :  one,  because  its  poems  are  of  that 
sensitive  and  illusive  loveliness  that  is  rare  in  the 
realism  of  contemporary  publications,  and,  another, 
because  the  book  links  the  literature  of  the  Orient 
and  the  Occident  rather  more  than  any  other  poet 
whom  we  recall — certainly  in  a  greater  degree  than 
Rabindranath  Tagore — and  proves  a  compelling 
experiment  where  it  might  have  been  a  possible  art 
misfortune." — k.  B.  in  the  Boston  Transcript, 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 
BOSTON 


